


Kings

by starri



Series: Royalty among Beggars [1]
Category: B.A.P, K-pop
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Blood and Gore, Gen, Kingsman Spoilers, Multi, Post V-Day
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-02 04:34:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5234291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starri/pseuds/starri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>V-Day leaves the continents blood-stained and broken, but Kim Himchan is tired of saving the world. He’s going to save his agents instead. </p><p>KINGSMAN AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. V-Day

**Author's Note:**

> Himchan says YW&F's suit set is based off of a Kingsman concept and yEAH OK. OK.  
> YEAH OK. 
> 
> slight spoilers for Kingsman in here. In the movie, V-Day is the day the whole world goes to shit due to vaguely explained mind control.

He flings himself into one of the containment cells meant for the most dangerous of criminals and hears the series of clicks that indicate the self-locking of the extensive safe guard systems.

For now, he is safe.

Himchan collapses against a wall and gasps for breath, willing his heart to calm its frantic staccato pulsing. It doesn’t. His bloodstreams feels like cut conduits, sparking painfully through his limbs. His hands are shaking with suppressed violence.

Whatever is on Valentine’s SD cards – it must be strong to be able to still affect him inside these walls meant to dampen most radiant energies.

Purposefully ignoring his still sporadically twitching hands, Himchan clenches his jaw, only to flinch when something heavy slams against the only none-padded wall of the containment chamber. It’s a one way mirror spanning wall to wall, floor to ceiling, meaning that while it keeps him from witnessing the madness outside – _good_ ; there’s also no blind spots inside the chamber for him to hide from whoever is outside looking in – _bad_.

The thumps continues. Himchan guesses that someone is getting their skull repeatedly smashed against the heavily reinforced glass – mere fists cannot make noises loud enough to penetrate the containment chamber.

Still shaking, and still on his knees, Himchan pulls out his cell phone. Miraculously, he can still connect –poorly - to the facilities' system. Viciously stabbing at the screen with his spasming fingers, he changes the lock override codes on the entire facility. Anything more complicated is obviously too much for his erratic mind, and even more erratic body.

-But he needs to do surveillance. Needs to make sure his team is safe –

As his phone slips from his fingers again and again, hot tears of frustration and fear rolls across his cheeks, plunges into the small puddle of blood that is widening with the gentle seeping of his thigh wound. When the one-way mirror begins to rattle with the unmistakable beat of a MK-42, Himchan gives in to the white noise in his head and screams and screams.

The padded walls takes the pounding of his fists, and absorb the sound of his desperation until his throat is as raw as his mind.

 

 

It’s only been ten minutes into V-day.


	2. 00:20

_\--Protocol dictates that in the events of catastrophic nature, A Handler’s priority is to establish the condition of the highest ranking member of the Organization and offer their assistance unless ordered otherwise. If the highest ranking member is found to be incapacitated or deceased, then the Handler shall proceed to locate the next highest ranking member._

Section two point three of the Emergency Response SOP, Himchan recites to the padded ceiling.

His body ache. He no longer shaking. He’s too tired to shake. He feels each sliver of muscle keenly, as if every tendon is pierced and chained to the reinforced concrete foundations. Time is slow. His vision is muzzy, dotted with black and his fingers refuse to uncurl. Randomly spiking pain reminds him of his thigh wound.

_\--2.3.1 During an event of a catastrophic nature, if not on the premises of an organizational facility (as defined in section 1.1) and not within the jurisdiction of a Chair (as defined in section 1.1) an agent of rank Three and above will have temporary authority over a Handler of any rank, until such time that an none-emergency code has been issued. To ensure the integrity of the organization (as defined in section 1.2), the well-being of agents are prioritized._

Ironic, how he resorts to reciting these stupid rules that he hates so much to keep himself from falling back into the welcoming void of unconsciousness. Himchan would laugh, if he isn’t breathless and tearing up from the simple act of sitting and grabbing at his phone.

The door to his cell won’t open. Vaguely, he remembers changing the access codes to the doors.

Now what did he set the new passcode to be? – none of the names of his teammates work, or his own. A variety of nicknames also failed to open his cell. In desperation, he types in Yongguk’s birthday – but the numbers spark something in his damnably slow mind and he hurriedly erases the digits and replaces with 0202p201o1. – the pin-yin of the first character of his name, translated into binary, and then rewritten in the shorthand he and Daehyun came up with so long ago.

The door opens, and Himchan can’t help a pained chuckle.

His mother has wished him strength, and even as he loses his mind to Valentine’s vision of mindless violence, he knew to trust his own power. Himchan can appreciate the sentiment, even when he feels the exact opposite of strong now that he’s clear minded again.

 

He stumbles out of his cell, gingerly climbing over a fallen steel beam stabbing diagonally into the hallway. Determinedly ignoring the pool of gore he’s stepping in, Himchan pauses to check his abysmal bandage over his thigh wound, and carries on. He heads towards the Surveillance Hub.

His team is separated all over the globe – the Organization’s way of slapping their wrists with a ruler. Himchan is at Central for the simple reason that he hates it here. When he was handed the notice of ‘ _temporary suspension of fieldwork_ ” five months ago, Himchan laughed and then cried into Yongguk’s shoulder. Laughed because how silly is it that the agency he’s dedicate his life to managed to break him a second time with just four words, and cried because the shoulder he’s leaning on was attached to a hand that was limply holding a “t _emporary disbandment of unit_ ” notice.

Himchan was put on babysitting duty and strictly forbidden to know the whereabouts and welfare of his supposed ex-teammates, but the ability to hack their own systems was what abled Himchan to survive his training years: Yongguk is in the Canadian Rockies for a long stakeout mission, because the Organization never lost its’ sadistic sense of ironic humour. Junhong and Jongup were shipped off to ‘complete their training’, as if Yongguk;s ideals were a bad influence that needed to be erased. Youngjae is somewhere in GuangDong on recon and Daehyun is flying after weapon dealers and country hopping in Europe.

The Surveillance Hub will give him all the information he needs to pin-point their exact locations.

 

He stumbles around a corner to comes face to face with a young girl, blond hair dyed red with blood. Vaguely, he recognizes her as one of the trainees – not in his section, but from one of Changmin’s group Himchan helped monitor when Changmin was off sick last month – came from Japan, didn’t she?

The girl’s eyes snap to his. She’s trembling, there’s tear tracks through the mess on her face. Her long, slender legs are splattered with gore and can barely hold her up.

“-I didn’t mean it.” She whispers to him.

Last week, he watched her decapitate a mannequin in the training center with a beautiful half-crescent kick, made deadly by the hidden blade in her four-inch heels. She had blushed when he complimented her and asked if he had any pointers.

Now, she flinches back as Himchan reaches out with a hand, makes a whimpering noise as she trips over a bloody mess wearing what can still just be recognized as a guard uniform.

“I didn’t mean to.” She whispers again, and ran. A broken sob can be heard even as her blond hair flitted away past another corner.

Himchan gingerly lifts the bloodied remains of the guard, swipes up the standard security personnel tablet from the mess on the ground. –should he go after the trainee? She won’t survive long in her state of mind – or should he—

Her fading sobs is replaced by her scream, surprised and foreshortened, followed by the sound of bullets. A laugh, masculine and cruel. Footsteps.

Himchan is swiping through the blood on the tablet before he even registers his own rising panic. Just as another scream sounds with more bullets, Himchan shuts down the exits for that corridor, sealing whoever is inside.

He leans against the reinforced steel door that came crashing down as he finishes his commands on the tablet.

Momo. That girl’s name was Momo.

 

Himchan was careful to avoid distantly sounding commotions after that. A half dead tech grabbed at his ankle down one hallway, and Himchan ignored the turmoil raging in the cage of his ribs and kicked the feebly screaming girl away and run on.

The corridor leading to Surveillance leads away from the underground bunker that the Himchan supposes the Chairs would be residing in to avoid the onslaught of V-Day. Himchan probably trapped them all in there when he changed the codes.

 _Fuck them._ He thinks with something akin to satisfaction. _And fuck the Handler’s responsibilities._

_Let them fucking rot in their safety bunkers._

 

In the central information hub, some screens are smashed, others flicker uncertainly. Stationary and the guts of machines litter carelessly among the blood that’s pooling from several extremely dead techs. Things are beeping hopelessly, warnings long realized are making dejected attempts at getting the dead analysists’ attention. Himchan looks on in despair. He doubt he can ravage anything useful in the limited time he has to evacuate the Facilities. There’s a growing smell of leaking gas filling the halls and that is not a good combination with naked wires poking out from damaged walls.

Turning to the first terminal that looks operational, and pushing the corpse off the chair, Himchan begins a search of the five agent tags of his team members and initiates the information transfer to a USB he swipes up from one of the open drawers. Letting the computer work, he surveys the ravaged room.

He grabs a first aid bag from one of the cabinets and takes out the EMS, and in the it’s space begins stuffing in cellphones that doesn’t look too damaged, a prototype handgun with no bullets, some paper and pens, a bottle of rubbing alcohol stashed with the first aid. He empties out a second first aid bag completely, starts filling it with the employee bottled water supply in the connected break room. Returning under the flickering gaze of dying screens, Himchan begins stripping the corpses of the weapons embedded within them.

No one saw the point of having the weapons research lab sealed off from the adjacent information hub, because _haha, what are those computer nerds going to do with a laser-cut knives? Make a salad?_

The weapons lab itself is faintly smoking. Himchan carefully avoids it. He’s trying very hard to dislodge a switch blade from someone’s knee and even harder not to notice that the man seems to have a pencil stabbed through his throat when one of the multitudes of beeping noises turns into wavering dial tone, then a voice.

_“Iron calling Central. Iron calling Central.”_

Himchan stands. His fingers hesitate, but that’s shaken away with a turn of his head and Himchan pushes on a headset to intercept the call. Before he can reply though, a surprised inhale cuts him off, followed quickly by “-Hoon?”

“No – “ Himchan pauses, clearing his throat. The vibration of his own voice is causing an unbearable grating on his trachea. “no. Tats receiving from Command Central.”

_“Tats-“_

Iron’s voice catches on the other side of the line, and Himchan pauses in his ransacking. He imagines the other man’s disappointment as a sharpened claw, ripping into both of them, spilling fear and guilt in a spray of hot crimson. Closing his eyes, Himchan listens to the heavy breathing sounding over their barely sustained line, and wills himself to be grateful that his friend is alive.

_“- tats. How is- is Central -?”_

“Central is compromised.” Himchan says, softly. - _I compromised it further_ – he doesn’t state, but from the curt, unsurprised affirmative he receives, Himchan suspects Iron knows anyways. “All codes has been re-programmed. If you need to come back, use a Mousehole to re-enter, but most of the Facilies are in shambles anyways. I will keep this channel open for as long as I can, but to find Hoon, or the rest of your team, try radioing in private channels - ”

Himchan pauses to wretch drily. The air is rancid and his throat feels like someone went through the inside with coarse sandpaper.

“- or an old rendezvous point.” He finishes, voice catching on constants.

_“Will you stay in Central?”_

“No.” Himchan says, and the act of admitting out loud his decision fills him with a sudden waterfall of relief, mixed with a trickle of fresh fear and the overlaying mist of anticipation. “I have a team to find, just like you.”

Iron chuckles – the sound sounds more like a rattle of bones over the headset. It might have been a coughing fit, Himchan reflects as he stuffs six handheld radios in along with the weapons he’s pinching.

 

_“I saw Joko yesterday. He said he’s on his way to Seoul – no check in’s and going back blind because he’s sick of dealing with HQ. Good luck, Chan.”_

A short burst of static, and a single dial tone to signal the end of the conversation. Himchan stills in the act of putting on his ravaged bags.

“Thank you, Minhyuk.” Himchan whispers into the silence.

An ember of hope flares its traitorous flame – Youngjae was on his way to Seoul. For his sake, Himchan hopes Youngjae didn’t make it all the way before V-Day struck. The halfheartedly flashing screens in Central Surveillance is giving Himchan a very clear and nauseating idea of what V-Day has done to populated areas.

For Youngjae’s sake, Himchan hopes he had – per usual - ignored Himchan’s repeated threats and holed himself in one of Himchan’s suburban safehouses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello. I have returned at christmas to give you guys more post-apocalyptic OT6.  
> I don't think I will be updating anything very frequently in the coming months, I apologize.


	3. 02:00

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a moment and a half

The sound of his footsteps are loud and clumsy, his breathing sound haggard in his own ears. Himchan is almost glad of the low spikes of pain that shoots unpredictably from his thigh wound now – it keeps him alert, alive.

He makes it to the facility hanger in just under fifteen minutes, burdened with the two first aid bags, his laptop bag and another snagged emergency survival kit pre-packaged for agents on call. He’s making his way to his usual unmarked black van when he reconsiders.

There’s no way he can drive an armoured van though the carnage on the streets, and the highways are probably not much better. He’ll have to sacrifice armoured protection for mobility.

 

 

He’s half way through strapping in his baggage on the fastest motorcycle he can find when he sees a movement from the corner of his eyes. Instinctively, he reaches for his sidearm that isn’t there.

Swallowing his curse, Himchan grabs one of the knives strapped to the back of the emergency pack and tries to maneuver around the bulk of a truck soundlessly. Not that it’s going to be much help, he was more concerned with speed than stealth when he first entered the hanger. Whoever it is he glimpsed surely already knows he’s here.

The reason the other person made no move towards him, malicious or otherwise, is because he’s missing a lot of his face. The movement Himchan glimpsed was a loose part of his jacket wavering slightly with the air stream.

The damage to the face is too extensive for Himchan to tell who he is – and his killer might still be in the enormous hanger. Not a good idea to hang around, then.

He’s about to turn back towards his motorcycle when he notices the long gash, elbow to wrist, on the inside of the dead man’s left arm.

 _None-dominate arm, inner wrist –_ tracking implants each agent receives upon initiation.

_Fuck._

He can – he can leave now, find a secure enough place and then attempt to dig it out of his arm, then look for a safe network and initiate a search for the rest of his team as he rests up.

Himchan almost laughs aloud as he steadies his grip on his knife. There’s no way he'll able to do all that on a motorcycle _and_ be alert enough to avoid danger. He’s going to have to perform the emergency surgery here and now, and hope that none of the highly trained killers locked in these buildings decide to come to this particular hanger while he screams in pain.

 

 

There’s a sloppy bandage under Himchan’s left sleeve when he leaves the hanger a full hour later, the tracker that was under his skin now pushed into the still sluggishly oozing wound of the anonymous dead man. The chances of someone tracking him is low, but if they do, assumed dead is what he would like them to put on his file.

With the bike hot and powerful between his legs, Himchan heads west. A messy track of Youngjae’s tracker had revealed it to indeed be in one of Himchan’s personal safe-houses, but no movement was detected after Valentine’s assault on the world. It could mean Youngjae had died during V-day, but more likely it means that Youngjae, too, decided this is a good time to go rogue, dug out his tracker and left for another safe house.

 _More likely_ doesn’t equal certainty, though, so Himchan heads west. If Youngjae is dead, he’s going to verify it with his own two eyes.


End file.
